


crest

by leiascully



Series: I Like You Under My Skin [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint ends up in the hospital.  Oh, and married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crest

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: post-Avengers  
> A/N: Only a year later, finally the wedding. Information on NY wedding licences came from [this page](http://www.health.ny.gov/publications/4210/) and Clint got married in [Sterling Archer's suit](http://shop.fxnetworks.com/archer-suit-long-sleeve-shirt/detail.php?p=369601), because why not.  
> Disclaimer: _The Avengers_ and all related characters are property of Marvel Studios and Joss Whedon. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

It all goes to hell when Tony takes Clint ring shopping. It figures. Clint tried every way from Sunday to get out of it, but Tony insisted in that extremely persistent Stark way, and now here they are in the middle of some kind of fucking shootout. One minute they're strolling along, looking at very tasteful, very expensive jewelery, and the next minute some dumb kids have pulled out a pile of guns from god knows where and they're threatening to take out the whole store.

"I knew I should have done this on the internet," Clint mutters, raising his hands.

"You can't shop online for a _wedding_ ring," Tony hisses. "That's the rest of your life, Barton. You have to feel the heft of it."

"I wasn't the one who was gonna wear it!" Clint hisses back. 

"Typical," Tony says. "Just typical. You obviously know what he likes, because he likes you. But you still need to know what it feels like." 

"I assume it feels like a fucking ring," Clint says, ducking behind a counter as glass shatters. "I don't know if you noticed, but as a fucking archer, I don't wear a lot of useless shit on my hands."

"You're overlooking the symbolism," Tony argues. "Impractical is not the same as useless. Also, quit bitching, it isn't like he won't understand if you take off your ring to save the world. Okay, on my mark, we're taking these punks out."

"How?" Clint demands. 

Tony shrugs. "Use your imagination, Barton. Think on your feet. Mark!"

Clint grimaces, but he joins Tony on his stupid fucking fool's errand. They hurl themselves around the counter and tackle the idiot kids, feet slipping on all the broken glass. At least they sort of have surprise on their side, because the kids obviously did not expect two out-of-their-mind grown-ass men to leap out of nowhere. Clint manages to knock the first one out through sheer dumb luck - the kid lands wrong with Clint on top of him, which is definitely when the broken glass becomes a problem for Clint, because he lacerates the shit out of his hands and his side getting up. He has to half-strangle the second one with a necklace before the kid gives up his gun. Suddenly there's a shot and a shout and when Clint looks over, gasping for breath, Tony's on the floor and there's blood everywhere. 

"God _damn_ it," Clint swears, and he's got the third kid on the floor before he even knows what he's doing. They roll around for a second and Clint has to headbutt him to get him to stay down. It makes him a little dizzy for a second, but he can only use the tools he's got at hand, and at least the kid gives up after that. The other two are gone, but a trail of red spatters tells Clint that a) the little shitheads didn't do any better a job avoiding the glass than he did and b) the police won't have quite as bad a job of tracking them down, because they are clearly idiots and they've left evidence all over the damn place. At least the staff are finally acting. Some burly dudes with security written all over them are standing over the remaining kids.

"You called the police, right?" he pants at a cashier. "Call the police. And an ambulance." He kicks away as much of the glass as he can and kneels beside Tony.

"Gotta get cracking on that bespoke bulletproof stuff," Tony says through gritted teeth.

"I don't know," Clint says, pulling the fabric of Tony's trousers away so he can look at the wound, which is pretty fucking awful. It's right above Tony's knee and there's a lot of blood. More blood than Clint is comfortable with being outside of Tony's body. He looks around, but everything is covered in glass, so finally he just strips off his t-shirt and wads it up and presses it to Tony's leg. "Maybe you just shouldn't leave the house without your suit."

Tony tries to laugh and ends up gasping instead. His face is pale and his mouth trembles a little. Clint knows that feeling all too well. "Really make me popular at restaurants."

"Just buy the whole damn place," Clint says. The adrenaline is wearing off and he can feel the pain of the cuts and bruises now. His hands are shaking where he's maintaining pressure on Tony's wound. Finally he can hear the sirens. 

"Give it to me straight, doc," Tony says. "Am I gonna be okay?"

"Everything except your face," Clint tells him, pressing the t-shirt harder against Tony's leg. It just keeps getting wetter and wetter. He doesn't want to think about that. "There's only so much science can do."

"You're a real asshole, Barton," Tony says, his voice tight with pain.

"Thank you," Clint tells him.

And then the EMTs are there, shining light in everybody's eyes for no reason and strapping Tony to a stretcher and insisting that Clint comes along with them and Clint stands up and then just kind of slumps, and they take him away.

When he comes back to his senses, he's in a hospital bed. Phil is there, and there's an expression on his face like nothing Clint ever wants to see again. Even full to the gills of painkillers, he can tell it's not a good face. Phil's tie isn't even straight. 

"Hey," Clint says, struggling to sit up. 

"Hey," Phil says back. "Don't you ever do that again."

"Go to Tiffany's?" Clint jokes. "I know. The prices alone are murder." He regrets it when Phil's eyes crinkle at the corners like Phil's the one who got sliced and diced.

"You know what I mean," Phil tells him.

"Sorry." Clint looks down at his bandaged hands and then back up. "It's not that bad, though. I wasn't the one bleeding out on the floor."

"You had so much glass in you they had to knock you out so that they could make sure they got it all," Phil tells him in a shockingly calm and even voice, which is how Clint knows he done fucked up this time. "You did a number on your hands. You have a concussion from hitting your head on something, possibly the sternum of one of the perpetrators, which is just another reason that they're keeping you here for observation. And most importantly, you were about two inches from being the one on the floor, and that, to me, is unacceptable." 

"Tony needed backup," Clint says, but the words fall flat.

" _Tony_ needed to call the authorities," Phil tells him, sounding just angry enough that Clint shivers. "This isn't the time for macho vigilante bullshit. We've got bigger battles to fight. Battles we can actually prepare for."

"Sorry," Clint mumbles. 

Phil sighs. He touches the back of Clint's wrist where the bandages end, his thumb skimming over Clint's skin. He suddenly looks very, very tired, and a lot older than usual. "I can't bury you, Barton."

"Oh," Clint says in a small voice.

He forgets that people care sometimes. Not Natasha - she'll have his back no matter what - but anyone and everyone else. He and Phil haven't talked about the potentially fatal nature of their work for a long time. 

"I can't be there all the time," Phil says. "Just don't pull anymore cowboy shit, okay?"

"Yeah," Clint says. His voice is hoarse. He tries to fold his stupid gauze-mitten hand around Phil's fingers, but his fingers are too stiff and it hurts too much, even through the haze of painkillers. "It's just...life, you know."

Phil smiles, but it's crooked, like he has to consciously raise the corners of his mouth. "Somehow a lot of life happens to you."

"Got one of those faces," Clint says.

Phil's laugh is short and sad. "I guess you do."

They sit in silence for a moment. Phil's still gently rubbing the back of Clint's wrist. 

"Let's get married," Clint says into the quiet of the room.

"Now?" Phil asks. 

"Nah," Clint tells him. "There's a twenty-four hour waiting period. I looked it up. But if we can get someone down here to get us papers, tomorrow." 

Phil's smile looks a lot less difficult this time. "Okay." 

"Yeah?" Clint asks.

"Yeah," Phil says. "I think we can pull that off. Not that it will make it any easier the next time you pull a stunt like this. But let's do it."

"Well, get on the phone," Clint tells him, gesturing with one mitten-hand. "I'm not touch-screen enabled. Also, I don't know anyone at City Hall. Oh, and I didn't get you a ring yet. Sorry. Stuff happened."

"Don't worry about it," Phil tells him. "We can wait until you get the bandages off for the rings. It's mostly symbolic anyway."

"That's what Tony said," Clint says, laying back down on the pillows. The lights are about to go out again, he can feel it. He sits up again with an effort. "Shit, Tony. How is he?"

"He'll be in a wheelchair for a few weeks," Phil says. "They got the bullet out, but they want him to keep pressure off the leg to avoid any complications. He's not pleased, but Pepper insists."

"Okay," Clint says. "Wake me up when City Hall gets here, okay? I'll sign with the pen in my mouth if I have to."

"I don't think it'll come to that," Phil assures him.

"Hey, hey, uh, you know where my documents are, right?" Clint asks. It's hard to get the words in the right order. He's not even sure he said half of them.

"Go to sleep, Barton," Phil orders. "I got this."

"Okay," Clint says, and then he's out.

\+ + + +

When he wakes up there's mashed potatoes and a little cup of jello and papers to sign. Even with his mitten-flippers, he manages. Phil has all the papers in order, because he's Phil Fucking Coulson and he could file paperwork for the apocalypse. When the nice city clerk has gone, Phil gets on the phone again and gets a judge to waive the waiting period. 

"I can't get married right now," Clint says, freaking out just a little. "I need a shower. I don't even know if I can have a shower. Everything hurts."

"Don't worry about it," Phil says. "I told you. I've got this."

He walks out of the room and walks back in with a bag that smells so good that Clint's eyes actually water. Inside the bag are two steaks with baked potatoes and a slab of chocolate cake that has to weigh five pounds. 

"Rehearsal dinner," Phil says, deadpan.

"I fucking love you," Clint tells him.

Phil smiles. They eat and watch bad tv and Phil kisses Clint before he has to go. 

"We're getting married tomorrow," Phil murmurs.

"Do you wanna be the Barton-Coulsons or the Coulson-Bartons?" Clint jokes.

Phil looks at him. "Let's just be married."

"Yeah," Clint says. "That's probably the best idea."

Phil kisses him again and tosses all the dishes back into his takeout bag and slips out of the room. He pokes his head back in the door. "Try to get somebody to help you shave in the morning. It's a little scratchy."

"I love you too," Clint says, rolling his eyes.

"Hey," Phil says, coming back for one last kiss. "It's going to be the best damn day of my life whether I get beard burn or not. Okay?"

"That's more like it," Clint says, and Phil really goes this time.

The nurse comes in and gives Clint a little side-eye because the whole room reeks of beef, but he just smiles and picks at his jello. She gives him a couple of pills to take and helps him stagger to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take care of business. 

"You're good people," he tells her as she helps him back to bed. 

"You're stoned," she says, but she sounds like she means it in a nice way.

"I can, um, bathe...and stuff...in the morning?" he asks. The words won't fly true.

"In the morning," she promises, and tucks him in, and that's nice, and he wants to tell her, but he's already asleep.

\+ + + +

In the morning he gets a sponge bath, which is a new experience. They rebandage his flippers and he winces a little at the sight of his hands. He gets lighter bandages, at least, more glove than mitten, but he's happy to have all that red covered up. He hopes to hell it doesn't scar or his hands are going to be tight forever. But that's something he can worry about later. Today, he's getting married. 

Natasha comes in before Phil does. She's wearing a dress and carrying a purse. She flings herself into the chair beside his bed. 

"You could have at least waited until I had the chance of sleeping with your hot ushers," she says.

"The only people I know wear spandex on a regular basis," Clint reminds her. Natasha shrugs. She reaches into her purse and tosses him something. 

"Coulson told me to make you put this on."

Clint unfolds it: it's one of those t-shirts printed to look like you're wearing a suit. It's got long sleeves and looks kind of cartoon-ish. 

"Don't look at me," Natasha says. "He said you weren't up to an actual suit."

"I'm not sure I have any pants," Clint says. 

"Why do I have to do everything?" Natasha asks, looking at the ceiling. 

"I guess you're my best man," Clint tells her. "Not counting the one I'm marrying."

"Real cute, Barton," she says, but he can tell she's a little pleased. She stands up, slinging her purse over her shoulder, and strides out of the room. Clint waits. He can't undo the ties on the hospital gown with his clumsy bandaged fingers, and his skin hurts too much to try to rip it off. She's back in ten minutes with a pair of sweatpants with the hospital's logo on them. She drops them on the bed.

"Don't say I never did anything for you."

"Help me get dressed," Clint says, sitting up. 

Natasha takes care of the knots in the gown and helps him strip out of it. "I heard your clothes got trashed. You know that means you have to go shopping again."

"As long as Tony doesn't take me, I'll be fine," Clint says. He winces as Nat helps him pull the t-shirt over his head. The doctor assured him that they were shallow cuts and they'd heal fast and clean, but that doesn't change the fact that he basically looks like some kind of waffle roadkill. The t-shirt is comfortable, though. A lot better than a real suit, today. The sweatpants are black, which helps. Overall, the effect is less than classy, but better than flash-your-ass hospital couture. 

At ten sharp Phil walks in the door, looking like he's about to go model for Dolce & Gabbana, and right behind him is Maria Hill and a justice of the peace.

"You got a hot usher after all," Clint murmurs to Natasha.

"Shut up," she says, but the look she gives Maria is calculating and appreciative.

"Ready?" Phil asks. 

"Definitely," Clint says. He stands next to Phil. He's not wearing any shoes, he stings all over, and his head still hurts, but he's never been more ready for anything in his life.

"Keep it short and sweet," Phil advises the justice. 

"How short?" the justice asks. 

"If I'm out of bed when the nurse comes by again, it's not gonna be good for me," Clint says. "So here we go: in sickness and in health, through alien invasion and alien alliance, in good times and bad, with both kinds of those little doughnuts if we have to stop for gas. That about cover it?"

"Sounds right," Phil says. 

"Cliff Notes," the justice says. "I can do that. Do you, Phillip J. Coulson, take Clinton Francis Barton to be your lawfully wedded spouse?"

"I do," says Phil, and his eyes shine.

"Do you, Clinton Francis Barton, take Phillip J. Coulson to be your lawfully wedded spouse?"

"Definitely," Clint says. 

"By the power invested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you married," says the justice. "This is where you can kiss, if you want."

Phil's hand cups the back of Clint's head and Phil's mouth is hot against Clint's almost before Clint can blink, and it feels just like home. He holds onto Phil as best he can with his throbbing hands. Phil steps back after a minute but doesn't let him go. They stare into each other's eyes like a couple of idiots. Clint can't look away. 

There's a commotion in the hallway and Tony skids in in his wheelchair, Pepper and Bruce behind him. 

"You!" he says to Clint. "And you!" He points at Phil. "Why wasn't I notified about this?"

"We weren't planning on marrying you," Clint says, sitting down on the edge of his bed and pulling Phil with him. "Sorry."

"I was invested in this wedding!" Tony says. "I was gonna get you the best venue in New York!" He slumps in his chair. "Pepper, tell them."

"He really was," Pepper assures them. She and Phil share one of those long-suffering glances that makes Clint roll his eyes.

"I need witnesses to sign the license," the justice offers. "There's space for three names. Or four, I guess."

"Damn right," Tony grumbles, wheeling over. He signs his name with a flourish. Pepper signs under his, and then Natasha and Maria. The justice looks over the paper. 

"That about does it," the justice says. "Congratulations, Mister Barton, Mister Coulson."

Tony points at both of them. "So help me, I'm throwing you a reception. You're not getting out of this that easy. Barton, if it'll make you feel better, I'll have a tailor come to the Tower. No chance of that ending badly."

"Let me know if you need anything else," the justice says to Phil, and leaves, which is a pretty good idea in Clint's opinion. Tony Stark with an idea is like a dog with a bone, if the dog could invent a machine to replicate the bone and then infuse it with micro-particles or something else Clint doesn't understand. Tony's still talking about lapels and fabrics and Clint can't hear a word of it. He pats Phil's hand. 

"Did you even listen to my voicemails?" Tony asks. "Pinstripes? Coulson, you're a man who's down with a good pinstripe."

"We can talk about this later," Pepper says, gripping the handles of the chair. "Come on. You need to rest."

"We're not finished with this!" Tony calls as she wheels him out of the room. "We need to talk honeymoon!"

"You want to get a drink?" Natasha says to Maria. 

"It's ten-thirty in the morning, Agent Romanoff," Maria says coolly. Natasha scowls a little. "So we'll have to stick to Bloody Marys." Natasha cheers right up again. She kisses Clint on the cheek, which is frankly pretty weird, but it's been a weird day.

"Congratulations or whatever, you domestic weirdo," she tells him, murmuring in his ear. 

"Don't be jealous," he whispers back. "Ten bucks says she's a freak in bed."

"You're on," Natasha tells him. 

"Congratulation, agents," Hill says in her clipped way, and then she and Natasha are gone, and Clint is alone with his husband for the first time. 

"I have to go to work," Phil says. "Incident reports. But I'll be back at 6. We can watch _Bridezillas_. I'll bring Thai."

"You are the perfect husband," Clint tells him. 

Phil kisses him on the forehead. "I'll do my best, Agent Barton. Now get healthy so the nice doctors will let you come home."

"Am I moving in with you?" Clint asks. "Or are you moving in with me? Because I don't want to do separate households. Although it could be hot. Alternate days?"

"It's a work in progress," Phil says. "We'll talk about it when you're not concussed."

"Good," Clint says. "Get back to work, Agent Barton's Husband."

Phil smiles. "Go back to bed, Agent Coulson's Husband." He helps Clint lie down again and pulls the covers up.

"I like this work in progress," Clint says. 

"Me too," Phil says. "It's a long-term project." One last loving, longing kiss and he's out the door, just in time for Clint's next round of pills. 

"You look happier," the nurse says.

"Must be that wedded bliss kicking in," Clint tells her, and she gives him a funny look, but he's too happy to care.


End file.
